


talk enough sense (then you lose your mind)

by Liu



Series: right in front of me [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breakups, Canonical Character Death, Don't worry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, M/M, Pining, Slow Build, coldatom endgame, the death is not len or ray lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 19:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8069230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: Len moves in with Lisa and Ray when they go to college.((ColdAtom end-game))





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CallieC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallieC/gifts).



> The continuation of my high school AU fic from the last ColdAtom week. I don't know if it's necessary to read the first fic, but it'll probably help you make sense of some minor plot points/hints :)
> 
> Gifted to CallieC, who greatly inspired me to write this sequel with the wonderful comments on the first part! A lot of the ideas in this story are directly from your comment, I hope I didn't butcher it too much :'D

“You better have some beer,” Mick huffs as he shoulders his way past Len into the house.

Len hates the sigh of relief that escapes his mouth, but he’s grateful Mick decided to show up after all. When Len asked him for help with packing, he didn’t think it would really happen; it was just one last desperate attempt to escape from Lisa’s angry sulking and Raymond’s kicked-puppy looks. Two weeks of that shit would be enough even for someone who did not care, and Len, against his better judgment, against his own will, cares.

Lisa tore into him the morning after prom, when she pushed for ‘steamy details’ and only got Len’s terse response about age differences and inappropriate behavior. He thought he managed to let Raymond down relatively gently but Lisa still flipped her shit, her mind set on the two of them as a couple. Len still mentally cringes about the weeks of silent treatment interspersed with screaming matches that have followed – the angry sulking is an improvement in comparison, but he still hates fighting with his sister.

She just can’t see the situation clearly – she’s eighteen, just like Ray, and both of them think the world’s ripe for the taking, that they can have whatever they want. They’re at that annoying stage of development where ‘age is just a number’, ready to get all up in people’s faces about what they think are just stupid misconceptions and stereotypes… but Len’s old enough to understand it’s more complicated than that.

Ray’s just a boy, regardless of the fact that he’s got a couple inches on Len and his shoulders are the size of a truck. He’s still testing the boundaries of his adulthood, growing into himself, sweet and innocent and a little bit naïve, and Len’s not gonna be the one to make all that crash and burn.

And it would happen: Len’s track record with relationships is abysmal and he’s _not_ going to pull an eighteen-year-old into his mess.

No matter how much he wishes he could.

Whenever he catches himself looking back at Raymond, Len feels like a creep for having feelings he should not have, for regretting having to tell the boy ‘no’. That’s why Mick is here, if Len’s to be honest with himself: to act as a buffer between Len and those pained, understanding looks Raymond’s sending his way.

It’s not that the boy made any overt attempts to sway Len’s decision: he’s so damn _nice_ that even though Len could see the kid’s heart breaking, the night of the prom when Len took him outside and told him they weren’t gonna happen, all Raymond did was nod and sigh and bite his lip, and then say he understood.

He didn’t, and he still doesn’t, Len can read that in every sad look, every dejected smile the kid fails to conceal. He’s still hoping, and Len needs to put an end to that hope before it breaks him – before it breaks _either_ of them, really.

So he hands Mick his beer and asks for help with packing up the kitchen: Mick follows and Len steels his resolve not to look back, not to catch Ray’s eyes following him with that pained expression. Lisa, predictably, sneers at them and shoulders past Len, but she’ll come around, probably the moment Raymond figures out he’s better off with someone his own age, someone cheerful and energetic and kind, someone very much not _Len_.

“So what’s that about?” Mick nods towards the living room as he grabs a couple of mugs and starts wrapping them in old newspaper. Len groans and rubs a hand down his face – he doesn’t want to talk about it, but Mick’s been his best friend for more than a decade, and if he’s deigned to spend his Saturday packing up Len’s house, then he deserves an explanation.

Len picks up a plate and stares at it before he finds the words that aren’t quite right, but they’re the only ones he can bring himself to speak. “He’s got a crush on me.”

“No shit,” Mick snickers, and something about the way he’s chuckling eases the knot of tension in Len’s stomach. He gives Mick a smirk, some degree of understanding passing between them just with a look; Len doesn’t have to talk about age and experience and the impossibility of it all, doesn’t have to confess to wanting what he shouldn’t. And shit, he’s gonna miss this: Mick might be a thug and an uncontrollable force, like a tornado or a forest fire, but he’s been a good friend, always there when Len needed him most.

They finish packing up the kitchen in under three hours, and when Mick promises to stop by the next day, it’s a little bit easier to pretend that Len doesn’t notice Raymond watching him.

…

Len would like to say that _in hindsight_ , getting an apartment with the guy he needs to distance himself from was a spectacularly bad idea… but that would mean he didn’t know from the start. He hates his own inability to provide for his sister and himself, the fact that his savings account is basically nonexistent and that he refuses to dip into Lisa’s college funds for a down payment on a place in Boston, but the truth is, Raymond’s offer to take care of the first month, before Len finds a new job and can pay their share, is too good to pass up on. He doesn’t want Lisa living in some sort of a dump, and while it would be morally right to let her and Raymond live together, without him, the truth is Len does not have the money to move to Boston all by himself, not unless he takes the kind of jobs that Lisa wants him to stay away from. The money he was able to get out of selling their old house goes towards Lisa’s tuition – even with all the aid she gets, Harvard still costs a lot, and she will need every penny they can scrape up.

He’s unyielding in his resolve to pay Raymond back, once he’s back on his feet, and the first two weeks in Boston are spent feverishly looking for a place that would hire him. Lisa charms her way into a position of a receptionist within the first few days and then spends her free time sightseeing and partying all around the city, with Raymond in tow more often than not. Len has a suspicion the boy’s more into not being alone than into the parties themselves, but he doesn’t say anything; it’s not his place to have an opinion on Raymond’s life choices, after all.

Len ends up a cashier at a Home Depot all the way across the city from their apartment – the commute is hell and the paycheck is not too great, but it keeps him afloat until he can find something better, and what is more, it keeps his pride fairly intact when he persistently pushes the rent money into Raymond’s hand, snapping at the kid when he dares to protest.

It doesn’t do much for Len’s _sanity_ , watching a sleepy, disheveled Raymond stumble out of his room for breakfast, sipping coffee and blinking blearily out of the window. The sunlight catches on his eyelashes and makes him look soft and warm and inviting, and Len makes it a point from then on to leave early and come home late. It feels like running away, and Len’s never been a coward, but he can’t deal with the lingering stares and the hopeful smiles whenever they end up exchanging a couple of sentences about their day. The kid’s still too focused on Len, and it has to stop.

Mick doesn’t really buy the excuse of ‘housewarming’ when Len invites him for Thanksgiving, but it’s not like Mick has any other places to be, so he shows up on Wednesday evening, tells Len he looks like shit and lifts the six-pack of beer he’s brought.

Len is insanely grateful. He’s exhausted, not so much physically as mentally, beaten down by the mindlessness of his job and the tedious avoidance of a smitten boy; stretching out on the sofa and leaning his shoulder against Mick’s feels like heaven. When Mick drapes an arm around him and pulls him close, Len goes pliant and lets himself be tucked into Mick’s solid chest, the easy comfort of companionship and human warmth exactly what he needs.

“Stressed?” Mick mutters, and a current of want washes over Len as he recognizes that tone, the question that’s actually asking something else altogether. It wouldn’t be the first time they fucked, providing stress relief and a relatively healthy outlet for each other: they’ve both grown up thinking too much about what it meant to be a man, lived and worked in an environment not conducive to exploring a steady relationship with anyone, much less another guy. They’ve fallen into the rhythm of friendship and comfort and occasional sex years ago, and Len thinks that maybe, this is what he needs to finally get Raymond out of his head. Maybe it’s just that, tension that needs to be relieved, and Mick is right there, familiar and quiet and _easy_.

They’re not gentle with each other, they’ve never been – _soft_ and _slow_ could easily tip over into something neither of them was ready to cope with. The kiss is wet and hard and sloppy, aggressive and hot, and Mick is letting Len push him down into the sofa, because out of the two of them, Mick’s not the one who needs control like breathing. His hands are large under Len’s shirt, rough fingers catching on the warm skin of Len’s back, roaming the well-known paths, up the spine, over a shoulderblade, down the side, gripping the back of Len’s thigh and pulling him closer. Len groans, and that’s maybe why he doesn’t hear the door opening, doesn’t hear anything but the rush of his blood in his ears and the sound of desperation filling his head.

“Oh.”

The word nearly gets lost in the sea of grunts and sighs and half-growls, but Len has spent months trying to avoid the sound of that voice and he’s maybe a little too attuned to it, after all this time. He raises himself off the sofa, hands against the armrest and Mick’s thick thigh still firmly lodged between his legs.

Raymond’s standing in the doorway, gaping and blushing and looking like somebody’s just stabbed him right through the heart. Len can’t bear to look at him – he has this stupid urge to say ‘sorry’ and ‘it’s not what it looks like’, but he doesn’t owe Raymond anything, dammit, so he sneers and raises an eyebrow at the boy and wills him to _understand_.

“Thought you were supposed to be out with Lisa,” he drawls, like he’s not pressed up against a man in the middle of their shared living room, like he’s not bothered by Raymond watching. He _shouldn’t_ be, and it shouldn’t matter that the boy saw... even if Len really was counting on Lisa and Raymond staying out all night.

“I- I didn’t mean to interrupt- I just, my wallet, I forgot…”

Raymond’s stuttering explanations halt to a stop and his eyes catch on Mick’s hand, the hand that Len can feel sliding up his thigh, cupping his ass and squeezing, pulling him impossibly close and making him grind his half-wilted erection into Mick’s leg.

He shoots Mick a furious glare, but the raised eyebrow he gets in response is enough for him to get it; Mick’s not doing this to be possessive or inappropriate or rude. He understands Len, maybe all too well, and he’s trying to help, he’s trying to make Len unavailable in Raymond’s eyes so that Len can breathe a little bit easier even when Mick is gone.

It’s uncomfortable, but Len gets it and doesn’t move away, no matter how much he wants to.

“I’ll just- I’m sorry,” Raymond whispers, voice brittle and hurt, and he’s gone before Len can manage to look at him again. The front door shuts behind him, perhaps a little too quietly, and Len lets out a shaky breath, gravity taking over as he closes his eyes and presses his forehead into Mick’s chest.

Mick lets him, without a word, and his hand on Len’s ass is more comfort than anything else. He doesn’t say shit like ‘you should move out’ or ‘it’s not healthy for you to be here’ – Len’s grateful for the silence, even though he knows that’s what Mick means when he eventually pushes him off and gets them both a new beer.

A silly movie, two beers and a sloppy, half-assed handjob later, Len’s staring at the ceiling of his darkened room, listening to Mick’s soft snores, and wonders where the fuck has he gone so wrong with his life.

…

The Thanksgiving dinner is a success in terms of food, and a failure in terms of anything else. Lisa keeps glaring at Mick over the table, Raymond looks like he’s just risen from his grave, and Len desperately wants to be anywhere else. He mourns the loss of Thanksgiving when it was just him and his sister, sweatpants and takeout and sarcastic running commentary about everything on TV.

Afterwards, Mick drags him to the bedroom without a word to anyone, and Len lets him, because it’s easier than facing Lisa’s wrath.

Of course, he doesn’t quite escape it; after Mick leaves the next morning (and kisses Len in the doorway with a smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth), Lisa stalks up to him and hisses in his face.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Len stares her down, because he loves her but he’s not about to allow her to run his life, no matter how hard she tries. He crosses his arms over his chest and glowers, and Lisa slaps his shoulder, hard.

“Mick?! Really?”

“What’s wrong with Mick?” he challenges, frowning. “You’ve known him for years.”

“Yes I know him, that’s the problem, Lenny! I know he’s… he’s…”

He raises an eyebrow, waits for her to find the words she doesn’t have; she might have found out, somehow, about Len’s career as a fixer for the Darbinyans, but she sure as hell doesn’t have the access to the crime family to know about Mick’s exact position within the tightly-knit structure.

At least Len hopes so.

She opens and closes her mouth like a fish out of water, then stabs a sharp fingernail into his chest, approaching her offensive from a different angle.

“I didn’t know you were such a heartless bastard.”

“You did,” he smirks, and she snarls, white teeth between dark red lips.

“Did you _have_ to do it right in front of him?! He’s _hurt_ , Len, you didn’t see him, he nearly drank himself blind-“

“Neither of you should be drinking at all,” Len snaps and turns away, nearly hearing her eye-roll.

“Yeah, right, _that’s_ the problem here. Why can’t you get your head out of your ass and admit that you like-“

“Lisa,” he interrupts, voice made of steel and eyes hard as he turns to stare at her. He’s not having this conversation, not again: he’s made all his points back in Central and it’s not his obligation to explain himself a thousand times over, especially not when justifying himself just makes his head hurt and his chest ache.

Lisa’s shoulders slump, just a little, and for a split second, she looks like the little girl Len used to help with homework. He can’t do that anymore – her advanced Harvard classes are just another step they’re taking in opposite directions, and he’s happy for her, he truly is, but he still feels nostalgia creep up on him from time to time, making him wish that she could remain a little girl for a little longer, that they could put off their imminent separation for a few years more.

He knows that this whole mess with Raymond is speeding up the process, but it’s not like he has a choice.

“I just want you to be happy,” she mumbles, defiant and lost, and Len pulls her into his arms, burying his face in her styled curls.

“I know, Lise. Just… let this go.”

She’s quiet for a long time, but her hands curl in the back of his shirt. He doesn’t say ‘please’ and she doesn’t say ‘yes’, but he feels like maybe she finally understands, a little bit, because she stops dropping unsubtle hints and teasing remarks whenever Raymond’s nearby.

It’s a small victory, but Len will take what he can.

…

The drive to the airport is a little awkward and Len can’t even begrudge Raymond not calling a cab, because he’s pretty sure this whole arrangement has roots in Len eyeing Raymond’s car ever since the boy bought it last month. Len wouldn’t ask outright if he could take it for a ride, and Raymond invented a whole convoluted scheme around preferring to be driven to the airport but not wanting to pay the awful parking fee for the two weeks he’ll be gone.

Len doesn’t believe a word of it, because Raymond’s account balance wouldn’t even notice the couple hundred, but he takes the opportunity to drive the dark blue Porsche anyway. It purrs under his touch and Len surrenders to the experience, or at least tries to, when he’s not busy scraping for the last reserves of willpower in order not to glance over at Raymond every five minutes.

Raymond has no such self-restraint – Len can feel the boy’s eyes on him all the way to the airport and a part of him wonders what he’ll do if Raymond reaches over the console and puts his hand on Len’s knee.

Of course, nothing like that happens: Raymond is just a boy, still a bit too innocent and so very inexperienced, and the thought reminds Len with brutal clarity that he shouldn’t be thinking this way at all.

“Is Mick coming for the holidays?” the boy asks, quiet and seemingly disinterested, staring out of the window, but Len can hear the edge in his voice.

“Raymond,” he sighs, a warning and a plea: he doesn’t particularly want to have a conversation about why they can’t happen, _again_.

“No, I… sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I just didn’t want you to be alone, for Christmas. You know.”

Len knows. Lisa’s going on some crazy skiing trip with the friends she’s made, and Raymond is such a goody-two-shoes that he would worry about Len’s holidays, even after having his heart broken. That’s partly why Len finds himself lying smoothly, seamlessly, ignoring the truth of him actually working all through the holidays.

“Yeah. He is.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Raymond doesn’t _sound_ okay, but it seems like maybe he’s trying to be, and Len really hopes the guy finds someone nice over the holidays, for a good, hard fuck (even though he’s not really sure that’s what would help, in Raymond’s case).

Raymond turns to him before he disappears in the airport building, with a soft, wistful look.

“You can use the car when I’m not here, if you want to. Just…”

He stops himself and blushes, and it shouldn’t look good on a young man his size; but it makes him look younger and Len’s heart hurts at the sight.

“Just you,” Raymond adds and then whips around and stalks away before Len can say a word, before he can process that he’s just essentially been asked not to screw Mick in Raymond’s Porsche.

He laughs at the bitter irony of the situation and drives Raymond’s baby home.

And if he takes it out for a spin every couple of days, at night when he gets back from another horrendous shift at Home Depot, inhaling the smell of new car and Raymond Palmer, well, nobody has to know.

…

Len is torn between wanting to hate Anna and genuinely wishing to like her.

She’s Lisa’s classmate, on-track to law school, driven, determined and intelligent, with a sharp sense of humor and no-nonsense attitude. Len can see why Lisa’s friends with her: unfortunately, he can also see why Raymond’s blushing and stuttering when Anna asks him out like it’s no big deal.

Len wants to dislike her, because she’s bold and so very obviously not new to dating; he wants to drag Raymond away from her, because this girl has the potential and the power to claw Raymond’s heart out of his chest and then stomp on it, just the way Lisa has done to several boys who were foolish enough to get swept up in the tornado that was Lisa Snart.

But it’s not Len’s place to try and protect Raymond – he already surrendered any claim to the role of a guardian of Raymond’s heart, and so, he can only watch the disaster unfold in slow motion. Raymond is star-struck, laughs too loudly around Anna and fidgets too much, references too many old movies and knocks stuff over with his long limbs that have not had enough time to get completely coordinated with the rest of him.

The thing is… it does not end up a disaster. Anna’s smile lights up her chocolate-brown eyes whenever she looks at Raymond, more and more as the weeks pass, and she becomes more of a permanent guest at their apartment than an occasional visitor. Raymond comes back from their dates excited to the point of radiating nervous energy, gesturing wildly and talking Lisa’s ear off and fretting over what to do or what he’s said and how Anna looked at him.

By the time first snow covers the streets and Christmas music starts blaring out of every tiny shop, Len is thoroughly disgusted with how sweet, how _perfect_ and how very much _in love_ they are.  They’ve been dating for eight months and they already look like a picture straight out of some book about how to have a perfect marriage. They’re not engaged _yet_ but Len’s stumbled onto Raymond’s browsing history and there were definitely some interesting jewelry searches headed in that direction. (Len would deny until his dying day that the discovery startled him, that his gut twisted into a knot and nearly made him sick.) And he has no right to be this bitter, because this is exactly why he stepped back two years ago, why he told Raymond ‘no’, so that the guy would have the opportunity to meet someone… someone exactly like Anna. And Raymond’s happy with her, it shines through his every move, every smile, every look he gives her – if his eyes turn just a little wistful sometimes when he looks at Len, that’s alright, because in the next moment he’d remember something Anna told him or watches her walk back into the room and his face lights up again.

It’s quite ironic that it’s easier for Len to talk to Raymond now; sometimes, Raymond gets up early enough that they have breakfast, or at least coffee, together and sometimes, when Anna’s busy with schoolwork and Raymond’s got nothing better to do, he’ll drop onto the couch next to Len and talk about everything and nothing. They go bowling, Len and Lisa and Raymond and Anna, and they rotate teams so sometimes, Len is left high-fiving Anna for kicking Lisa’s and Raymond’s asses. Sometimes, though, Raymond drapes an arm around Len’s shoulder in a consoling hug or yells in his ear happily when they win, and Len can’t quite help the flopping of his stomach at the closeness.

“I’m thinking that maybe next year, we’ll look for a place together, Ray and I,” Anna says one day in late February, and Len manages not to fumble and break the cup he’s washing.

She’s leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, watching Len do the dishes after the dinner they just had together, all four of them. Len doesn’t have to look at her to see the ring glittering on her finger – the image is burned into his retinas ever since that bleary post-Valentine’s morning when he saw it for the first time, catching the early morning light when Anna walked into this very same kitchen, Raymond’s shirt hanging just below her perky butt and Raymond’s promise twisted in white gold around her finger.

Len knows that Raymond won’t live here forever; he thinks that the kid is still too young to think of marriage, too young to plan his future this far ahead. They haven’t even been together for a full year, it’s insanity, it’s too damn _fast_ \- but the truth is, Len can see them being so fucking _good_ together, and a part of him, the part not consumed by jealousy and regret and bitterness, sees the appeal.

“Yeah?” he says, because she’s his friend by now, in the loosest possible definition of the term. He’s made it a point to be civil to her, and most times, it’s not even difficult. Right now… right now, Len’s throat is too tight for much polite conversation, especially when he senses her shifting behind him, moving closer, and her small hand lands on his shoulder.

“I’m telling you so that you have enough time to figure things out. Financially, maybe find another roommate,” she says, softly, and Len clenches his teeth in the expectation of the things that still just hang in the air, things she hasn’t said before but he knows that she’s aware of them, with her sharp, perceptive eyes. “And emotionally… so you have time to let him go, once and for all.”

He freezes under her touch, and she pulls her hand away. He doesn’t want to talk about this, doesn’t want to acknowledge the horrid, inappropriate, jealous elephant in the room, but he can’t truly back out of this, so he tries his usual approach of ‘fake it till you make it’ and lies, through gritted teeth and a constricted throat, fingers clawed tight in the dripping sponge.

“I have. Long ago,” he croaks, and the soft sound she makes tells him she’s not fooled.

“He’s very easy to love,” she says quietly, and Len wants to laugh, because isn’t that the fucking truth. It sounds like she wants to say more, maybe something about how she can give Raymond what Len has refused to offer, how he can have things with her that wouldn’t happen with Len, a prestigious future full of sunlight and joy, a picket fence and two-and-a-half kids. But she’s far too smart to resort to pettiness like that, and so she leaves Len alone with his dirty dishes and dirty laundry, thinking about her words.

He needs to get over Raymond… and fast.

…

One week and one half-drunk fuck later, Len’s sure that casual sex is not what will help. It’s not bad, per se; the guy’s blonde and pretty, broad shoulders and a lean waist, and he kisses like he’s got something to prove. He lets Len fuck him, in the not-too-seedy motel room that makes Len cringe at the cost, but it’s not like he wants to bring the guy back to his apartment. He smiles at Len afterwards, sated and flushed and content, and Len wishes he could be happy with this, that he could look at this guy and feel… something, other than mediocre gratitude for the average sex.

He tries, in the end, because he’s too damn exhausted to say ‘no’ when Eddie asks if they can meet again, and (Len hates to admit this) because there’s something innocent about Eddie, something sweet and kind that reminds Len of Raymond, even if the whole purpose was to forget about the boy. Maybe it’s not Raymond – maybe Len just has a thing for sweet, ripped dorks.

That’s what he tells himself when Eddie takes him out for dinner a couple days later and kisses him under a streetlamp. That’s what he tells himself when Eddie shyly asks if Len wants to go to Eddie’s place, when they fuck, again, when Eddie tells him he likes him, a few not-too-bad, but not-so-great dates later.

They’ve been dating (in Eddie’s words) and fucking (in Len’s) for three months before Eddie meets Lisa, and doesn’t make much of an impression; she calls him Officer Low-Carb when he’s not there, because he’s apparently in the middle of a police training and very health-conscious. Len tells her to shut up, and doesn’t mention all the things Eddie has confessed between the sheets, head on Len’s shoulder and in a mood for oversharing. It’s become strangely comfortable, after a while – if Len were honest enough to admit how much of an asshole he’s being, he’d say that it feels good to have someone who so clearly likes him and isn’t off-limits, someone to call when he has a day off, someone he can take out for a drink and then take back home. He’s not in love with Eddie, far from it, but they’ve established a certain level of familiarity that tides Len over whenever he thinks about Raymond moving out and getting married.

Eddie cares enough to see that Len’s definitely not happy at Home Depot, even though he’s managed to rise from cashier to department manager. Turns out that Eddie’s also a kid from a good family, who knows other good families, who definitely need their huge gardens tended to by a large number of professionals. That’s how Len ends up first only helping out, and then quitting his job to join a professional gardening crew. His summer is suddenly infinitely busier, his back hurts almost every day and his hands form hard calluses from all the shoveling, but he feels accomplished in a way he certainly didn’t while trapped under Home Depot’s neon lights. He hasn’t even realized how stressed he used to be until he’s not anymore, at least not because of a job he’d hate, and he startles himself a little bit by laughing at things again, more freely than before.

He doesn’t even mind when Eddie tucks himself into Len’s side; life might not be great, but it’s bearable, it’s comfortable, it’s better than it’s been for a while, and Len starts feeling tentatively content about the way his days go.

He has almost two full months before things go to hell.

…

“I’m gonna kill him,” Len says, and he can read in Lisa’s eyes that she knows he’s serious. The machines bleep through the sterile air of the hospital and the young man on the bed is still unconscious, his too-damn-pale face contrasting sharply with his dark, messy hair. “I’m gonna kill all of them.”

“You can’t!” Lisa hisses at him, scowling and reaching over the bed to grab his wrist, as if she’s worried he’ll just stalk out of the hospital and into the first gun shop he sees.

The urge is right there under Len’s skin, itching and burning and driving him nuts for the weight of a gun in his hand again, a thing he has not missed in the past two years. He used to be a fixer and this mess definitely needs some _fixing_ , even though it won’t really help anything: Anna’s still dead, and Raymond hasn’t woken up.

They will have to tell him, oh fuck, _fuck_ , they will have to tell this beautiful, bright, hopeful kid that the woman he wanted to marry is dead, zipped up in a body-bag with a gunshot wound and half her skull missing. Len’s sure it will be very tastefully repaired for the funeral and his stomach rolls at the thought.

She’s dead, and Raymond’s world will collapse when he wakes up, and it’s the fault of some assholes who thought it necessary to make a point with bullets.

“I can,” he tells Lisa, and there must be something dead, something horrifying in his eyes, because she recoils, visibly shaken, and her fingers tighten around his wrist.

“Lenny, no, you- you’ve built a life, you can’t just throw it away for- Ray wouldn’t want you to go on any crazy revenge quests, alright? It won’t solve anything, you’ll get caught-“

“I won’t,” he says, quietly and steadily, and they both know it’s true. He spent ten years working for the Darbinyans, he still has enough contacts, he has Mick, he has-

“You have a cop boyfriend,” Lisa hisses, “what do you think Officer Low-Carb will think about your stupid plan?!”

Len wants to say that Eddie wouldn’t have to know, even though a part of him agrees with Lisa. If Len gets caught (which he won’t, but still), Eddie would be the cop dating a criminal. He could screw up Eddie’s career with this… and Len’s not enough of a dick not to care at all, but vengeance still simmers right under the surface, making his skin itch.

“What plan?” echoes from the door, and of fucking course he’s here, too much of a good guy not to come by. Len grits his teeth and casts a vicious, warning look Lisa’s way, but of course his defiant sister doesn’t react too well. With a sneer, she turns to Eddie and raises an eyebrow, and Len wants to slap a hand over her mouth, but that would mean climbing over the bed and he doesn’t want to dislodge some important tubes keeping Raymond alive.

“The plan to go shoot up the shooters,” she snarls. “Tell him how much of a bad idea that is, please.”

Eddie laughs a little, but the sound dies down when nobody joins him. Len is resolutely not looking at him, feeling Eddie’s eyes on his back, and the silence is deafening.

“You… wouldn’t do that, would you,” Eddie says slowly and Len really wants to turn and smile, but Raymond’s pale face is _right there_ , the paper-thin hospital gown covering the bandages from the goddamn three-hour surgery. He hasn’t woken up for almost two days. Nobody wants to tell Len anything because he’s not family, so he has to blackmail and threaten and panic his way towards every piece of information, and it’s excruciating, and he needs to do _something_ or he’ll go crazy.

“Len,” Eddie speaks again. It sounds like _please_. “You’re a- you’re a gardener.”

“I wasn’t always,” he answers, and he knows that he’s cracking the fragile something between them, but he can’t bring himself to look away from Raymond’s unconscious form. He can’t bring himself to care.

“What does that mean?! Len, talk to me!”

“Not now.”

“When? Look, you just implied some things-“

“I’ll call you. Go.”

It’s not the harshest dismissal he’s ever given anyone, but it still rings through the beeping air, makes Eddie’s steps heavy as he walks away without another word. The aftertaste of his words is bitter on Len’s tongue through the night as he sits and keeps guard, breathing in the sickening scent of disinfectant and hoping for the best.

Twelve hours later, Lisa returns with coffee (for her) and scolding (for him), and forces her ‘stupid brother’ to go take a shower (“No guns, do you hear me, Leonard?!”). He trudges back to the apartment that still reeks of Raymond, his hoodie over the back of the chair, his running shoes by the door, the half-eaten sandwich he didn’t have the time to finish before going out with Anna still sitting on the counter.

Eddie pushes up from the sofa and looks at Len, half pity, half challenge. He got the key not too long ago, when Len was working on a massive garden just north of the city, coming home late and wishing nothing more than to fall into bed. Eddie used to wait for him sometimes, with hot meals and understanding, and Len gave him the key without thinking too much.

Right now, Len wants to collapse into Eddie’s arms, just hold him and breathe him in and be silent together, for a while, but he knows he closed that door for himself back in the hospital, with his panic and his desperation and his half-cocked plan.

“Talk to me,” Eddie says, and a steely edge has replaced the usual warmth of his voice. He’ll be a damn fine cop one day, Len can see it already… but he has a feeling he won’t be seeing much of Eddie in the future.

He doesn’t have the strength to lie – not when he’s still on the verge of looking for a gun, not when all he can really think about is Raymond in that hospital bed, and how Len wants to be there when he finally wakes up.

So he sits down with a heavy sigh, ignores thirst and hunger and exhaustion, and tells Eddie the gist of it; what he used to do and for whom, and what he wanted to do back in that hospital room – what he still itches to do, even though he’s aware it’s a bad idea.

“Shit,” Eddie sighs – he doesn’t really swear, and Len wonders when did he come to know this man so well. Eddie rubs a hand over his head, blonde hair sticking up every which way, and Len wants to smooth it down, tell the guy it’s going to be okay… but he understands the implications of what he’s just said.

Eddie could lose his job if anyone ever started poking into the questionable past of his boyfriend – at the very least, he could be kicked off his fast track towards the position of a Detective. Eddie lives for his job… and Len’s not giving him enough to be worth losing his future.

“What do you want me to do with that, Len?” he asks, blue eyes turning to Len, tortured and still so damn good. He could arrest Len, somehow, find a way to make the charges stick, link him to the things Len has hinted at. Len knows he won’t, though… and it makes him feel like a dick that he’s putting Eddie in that position. “Do you even know… why haven’t you told me sooner?”

“Didn’t think it mattered,” Len shrugs, and that’s the sad truth of it. He didn’t think his past mattered because he never thought _Eddie_ would come to matter, and it’s just the story of his fucking life that he has come to understand that the guy _does_ mean something to him just as he’s about to lose him.

Not that he can blame anyone else but himself and his stupid fixation on a boy too young, too good for him.

They sit in silence, for a while, until Len’s stomach growls and his eyes start drooping.

“I need to get back to the hospital,” he says, quietly, and Eddie, ever the good guy, tells him to go take a shower. There’s coffee and a sandwich waiting for Len when he gets out, hair still damp and fresh shirt sticking to his skin, and Eddie’s eyes follow him like Len imagines the guy tracks criminals, watching out for an escape attempt. It turns his stomach to think about Eddie like that, like someone on the opposite side of the barricade, but it’s the truth of it, and it’s Len’s fault. He wonders how long he could’ve avoided revealing his past if the previous three days didn’t happen, if the fucking assholes didn’t shoot up the street where Raymond and Anna were walking… but ‘what if’s never helped anyone and Len bites viciously into the sandwich, trying to swallow all the bitter thoughts with the lettuce and the bread.

“I’ll drive you,” Eddie says, and Len looks at him to protest, but there’s something final in Eddie’s eyes and he shuts up, finishes his coffee and gets into Eddie’s car, understanding that this is Eddie’s way of saying goodbye, doing the final nice thing for someone who hurt him.

Eddie kisses him over the console when he stops the car in front of the hospital; it’s soft and bittersweet and Len closes his eyes for the two seconds it takes for Eddie to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, because he is – Eddie doesn’t deserve to be treated like second-best, even though Len can’t offer him anything else.

Eddie laughs, and it sounds a little wet, a little choked. “Just get out.”

He pushes a key into Len’s hand and Len doesn’t have to look at it to understand. He watches Eddie’s car disappear, and then trudges back to the bleary room to spend another night with clasped hands and clenched jaw, hoping for the best.

…

Raymond nods when they tell him.

That’s that – just a nod, no tears, no denial, no… nothing, and Len is more worried than he lets on. He tracks down a psychiatrist, who is remarkably unhelpful with her ‘there’s nothing physically wrong for him’ and ‘everyone processes grief differently’ – Len doesn’t know what to do, except sit by Raymond’s side and watch him sleep. He’s still weak, still hurting and drugged to the gills most of the time, and it takes eight more days before they can take him home.

He’s like a rag doll, lets Lisa stuff him into a hoodie, lets Len hook his arm around his waist and manoeuver him into the car. He stares listlessly out of the window the whole ride back home, and the silence is driving Len nuts; Lisa turns on the radio just for some ambient noise and they barely even speak a word to each other as they help Raymond upstairs, to their apartment.

It’s only when Lisa suggests that Raymond lie down that he turns his horrible, empty eyes to Len and finally speaks, voice hoarse and broken and painful.

“Can I- can I sleep in your room? Just tonight, but I can’t… I can’t.”

He doesn’t have to finish that sentence – Len can only imagine how it must feel, thinking about the bed he used to share with Anna, the room where everything would remind him that his girlfriend, his _fiancée_ , is gone.

“Of course,” Len nods and helps him settle down, pulls his own sheets up to Raymond’s chin and sits with the guy until he falls asleep. It doesn’t take long, the meds still coursing through Raymond’s bloodstream, and Len feels the homicidal urge rising again. But Lisa’s right – Raymond wouldn’t appreciate it, and even if Eddie’s not coming back, Len still has people to think about. Lisa would have a hard time getting into a good law firm once she’s out of school if her brother were in prison for murder… and Raymond does not need more death in his life, one way or another.

In the end, Len makes a call to a number he should not still remember: Raffi teases him profusely but promises to talk to his uncle, and when Len gets off the phone, he knows that the assholes who did this will never buy a gun anywhere again. It’s a small victory, one that doesn’t elicit nearly as much satisfaction as putting a bullet in the jerks, but Len will take what he can. He briefly thinks about what Eddie would say to that, to Len still having the right to call in a favor with the most prominent crime family in Central City… but it doesn’t matter anymore, and Len forces himself not to think about it while he prepares dinner.

When the day fades, he feels odd about the possibility of retreating to Raymond’s room – it’s like breaching someone’s privacy, someone who’s in no right mind to decide either way, so Len camps out on the sofa and twists and turns restlessly well into the night. That’s probably why he hears the soft, pained sounds coming from his room. He gets up and walks quietly towards the source, and his heart clenches tight when he recognizes the sounds as quiet, choked-off sobs. He pushes the door open, slowly, carefully, but the room is way too dark for him to see much.

“Raymond?” he asks, and the sobs fade a little, with a slight hitch as if the man were holding his breath. Wordlessly, Len steps towards the bed and sits down on the edge of the mattress, reaching through the shadows until his hand rests on warm, sweat-damp fabric, the muscle and bone of Raymond’s shoulder shifting underneath as if he were trying to get away from the touch, just for a second. Then he’s twisting on the bed with a pained hiss and Len pushes down on his shoulder to stop him from moving.

“Shh,” he mumbles. “I’m here. It was just a dream.”

He knows how treacherous those words are – not everything in a nightmare is unreal, unable to reach you when you wake up. Raymond takes in a shaky breath, and it sounds like he’s trying to hold back the tears and failing.

“No, it’s not. She’s dead, Len. Anna. She’s dead.”

Len has known this for twelve days, and yet Raymond’s words twist a sharp knife in his gut, regret and compassion and anger roiling in a fierce storm.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, insufficient and stupid, but there are no words to make this better: Len knows, because he’s been looking for something to say ever since he learned that she’s been shot, and so far he’s fallen short of finding anything that would make the pain at least marginally better.

“She’s dead,” Raymond repeats, his whisper hoarse and loud in the darkness of the room, “it’s my fault, I wanted to take her there, I wanted… it should’ve been me, Len.”

“No,” Len snaps, fear suddenly filling his lungs, and he squeezes Raymond’s shoulder, frowning. “No. What happened is horrible, but it’s not your fault.”

“It is,” he inhales roughly, as if against his will, “I should’ve died, and she should’ve lived.”

Len growls at that and brings his other hand up, palm brushing chin and neck before he manages to cup Raymond’s cheek. It’s rough with stubble and wet with tears and Len tries to wipe the dampness away with his thumb, but new droplets slide over his fingers and he gives up the futile effort.

“No,” he repeats, curling forward as if closeness could drive his point home. “Don’t say that. It shouldn’t have happened to her, but that doesn’t mean it should’ve been you. Shitty things happen, and it sucks, but blaming yourself doesn’t help.”

He knows that, just as he knows that survivor’s guilt doesn’t just go away because someone says it should.

“Will you stay?” Raymond asks, almost inaudible, and Len doesn’t think twice.

“Yes.”

He lets Raymond repeat his miserable mantras, lets him cry, lets him pull Len onto the bed with him and lies there, on the edge of the bed, with his ass half-hanging in the air and with Raymond’s wet face pressed into his shoulder. It feels like hours before Raymond relaxes from spasmodic, near-hysterical crying into fitful sleep, and Len’s head is pounding, but he’s determined to help the boy heal, no matter what – even if it kills him.

…

“Get out of the bed,” Lisa snarls, and Len glares at her, letting his tablet drop to his lap. He’s been sitting with Raymond for the better part of the day – the guy’s been asleep for far too long, but Len thinks that maybe, it will help.

Lisa stalking in and throwing the curtains open definitely does not _feel_ like helping.

“Did you hear me? Ray, move your goddamn lazy ass and get. UP!”

“Lisa,” Len growls, and she turns to him with a pointing finger and a pointed glare:

“And you, stop fucking coddling him and help me get him up!”

“Are you out of your mind?!” he snaps and rises from his chair, worn-out and dragged to the apartment from a thrift store five blocks away. Raymond had helped him, that day… Len still feels like he hasn’t repaid every one of the small favors. “He needs rest, what the fuck are you-“

“He needs to get out of the bed, put on a shirt and go to his fiancée’s funeral, that’s what he needs!” Lisa nearly yells. Raymond makes a quiet, pained sound and tries to burrow into the covers. Lisa pulls them off his body with a vicious hiss. “Get up!”

Len grabs her by the elbow and hauls her towards the door, rage rising in him like a tidal wave, but she plants her feet and glares at him – that’s when Len notices she’s wearing black. It’s not a rare occurrence for her, but this time, there’s no flash of glitter and gold, no color to break the uniformity of the black dress, the suffocating tension it implies.

“Listen,” he warns, and she yanks her arm out of his grip, stepping closer to glare up at him, not wearing her heels and a couple inches shorter for it.

“No, _you_ listen,” she snaps back, “you’re not thinking clearly, Lenny, and I get it, I _get_ it, but you’re not helping.”

“You’re forcing him to go to her _funeral_ , for fuck’s sake!” he hisses, as quietly as he can – he just wants Raymond to get better, to heal, and Lisa comes with a fucking truckload of salt, shoveling it into Raymond’s wounds – no, he can’t stand by and watch it happen. He’ll protect Raymond no matter what, even if he has to fight his own sister to do it.

Lisa doesn’t back down, but her eyes soften, just a fraction, and she sighs, curling her hand around his fingers.

“You can’t shield him forever. Yeah, today’s gonna be rough. He’s not going to take it well – but a month from now, a year, what do you think will happen? He’ll look back and think ‘oh, damn, I couldn’t even go see her one last time’. He doesn’t _want_ to go, nobody ever does, but if he doesn’t… he’ll regret it, and that regret’s gonna cost him more than it will to go.”

Len opens his mouth… but he knows she’s right. His beautiful baby sister, always so fierce, so smart… somewhere down the line when he wasn’t looking, she stopped being a child, and it hurts him to think about it, about her not needing him anymore. But he can see that she has a point, and she’s here to do what he can’t, so he steps back and then helps her get Raymond out of the bed, into the shower, shave and dress and borrow Len’s black tie because Raymond doesn’t have one of his own. He ties it for Raymond, because the guy’s hands shake too much, and his eyes are red-rimmed already so Len shoves sunglasses into his pocket and then goes to change himself because while he acknowledges that Lisa was right, he’ll be damned if he lets Raymond go through this hell on his own.

The ceremony is too damn long, a fuckton of people talking about how bright and caring and smart Anna was and whatever the fuck she would have wanted. Len thinks back to the day when she told him she and Raymond were moving in together, and he lets Raymond crush his hand in an iron grip. They look at her, unearthly and beautiful and horrifying in her stillness, and Len thinks _I’ll take care of him for you, I swear_.

…

Once Raymond is well enough to resume his daily activities, he’s missed nearly two months of the semester and he’s got so much studying to do he barely does anything else. It gives reason to the dark circles under his eyes, to the insomnia and to the paleness of his skin, but Len’s not fooled. He makes sure that the guy gets away from his books enough to eat once in a while, brings Raymond coffee, drives him to physical therapy sessions that leave Raymond’s face all red and sweaty and twisted in pain. Despite all his efforts, it feels like Raymond is slipping, like a fundamental part of him, the part that was sunny and warm and open to everything good in life is dead, shot and murdered on the corner of North and Clinton, and Len doesn’t know how to revive it. He’s always been good at compartmentalizing, at keeping people he cared about physically alive, but he’s been focused on mere survival for far too long to know how to be a therapist as well.

The first time Raymond laughs, it’s weak and rough, like he’s forgotten how to make that sound. It’s five months after Anna’s death and Raymond looks like he feels guilty for feeling amusement or joy or anything else than the grief that’s been consuming him all this time. It’s strange how proud that laugh makes Len – he only made a short sarcastic comment about someone at the grocery store, and Raymond laughed; Len feels relief so intense it nearly makes his knees buckle.

He’s gonna be fine. It will take time… but Raymond’s gonna be just fine.

Apart from making sure it happens, Len throws himself into the work for the gardening crew. They’re called the ‘Gardens of Tomorrow’ and it’s tacky as hell, along with their logo, but considering their boss who acts more like an obnoxious, confused older brother than a responsible entrepreneur, it’s not surprising at all. Hunter’s idea of work is chaotic at best and relies more on luck than actual measurements. Stein, their botanist with a PhD in landscape architecture, often wants to strangle him, but usually it turns out better than expected, out of sheer luck the whole crew seems to rely on heavily. It takes a while to get used to that, to the workload and to trusting people, but Len finds himself going out for a beer with his colleagues here and there and thinking that maybe, he could get used to it. He still feels vaguely guilty if he stays out for too long (and two hours should not feel like ‘too long’, but it does): he hurries back home to sit in front of the TV and listen to Raymond’s fingers dancing away on his laptop, working on some assignment or another. Just knowing that Raymond’s moving on, step by a difficult step, is enough to ease some of the weight bearing down on Len’s lungs.

Len knows it’s not healthy to fixate on Raymond like this. It’s exactly what he tried to prevent all those years back when he said ‘no’ to a young, bright-eyed boy who asked him to dance – but that boy is buried underneath the debris of his collapsed life and Len wants to help dig him out, even if it’s not good for him. He doesn’t let himself think of loneliness; he still misses Mick, from time to time, the easy comfort of friendship that never needed many words. He even misses Eddie, being woken up by a bright smile and a sloppy, enthusiastic blowjob – but Mick’s living a life Len backed out of when he moved to Boston, and Eddie could as well live in another country for all the ways Len fucked up with him.

Sara is the senior horticulturist being groomed by Hunter to take over his responsibilities one day, and she possesses the same sense of dry humor Len does. She jokes about black ops and burnout syndromes and Len’s the only one who doesn’t think she’s lying – he drops a hint about his own past once, and Sara just nods and doesn’t judge and buys him another beer. They play cards and argue about plant placement and make fun of Hunter’s speeches, and it’s good, it’s easy: it starts feeling like a friendship he can lean on from time to time.

Sara doesn’t know everything about Raymond, but she knows enough to listen to Len speak in vague, frustrated metaphors when he needs to unwind. She doesn’t take his bullshit, tells him when she thinks he’s wrong (and she thinks so often), and Len appreciates it: sometimes, it feels like he’s carrying too much load and he doesn’t want to add more to Lisa’s plate, but Sara’s sculpted shoulders look like she can take that weight.

He listens to her talk about coping with her sister’s death, and it helps him some with understanding what Raymond is going through and what he can do; Sara is also a firm proponent of the ‘no coddling’ attitude Lisa has adopted, and while Len doesn’t manage all the time, he tries his best to work it into his approach of Raymond. He bullies the guy into going out for a meal instead of letting him be buried by takeout containers, threatens to yank wires out of walls if Raymond doesn’t drink enough water, snarls at Raymond to change his sheets instead of doing it himself.

It seems to be working, bit by bit; Raymond becomes capable of not resembling a zombie for days at a time, unless there’s a particularly jarring memory of some anniversary he won’t get to celebrate. When those roll around, Len always tries to clear his schedule for the day, takes Raymond outside, gets him a stiff drink and some companionable silence. After the first couple of times (which end up in tears and embarrassment and guilt), it gets better, and Len keeps reminding himself to let Raymond take baby steps.

Of course, it wouldn’t be Raymond if he didn’t leap when everyone’s expecting him to stumble.

It’s sixteen months after Anna’s death, and Raymond gets back from some campus Christmas party at three in the morning. Len hears a sound like someone walking into a piece of furniture, and he gets up to see if Raymond’s alright, if there’s something he needs, someone to talk to or someone to sit with for a while.

Raymond looks up from his phone, his face illuminated with the blue glow of the screen, and a slow smile spreads on his face. His cheeks are flushed, from alcohol or the chilly air, and his eyes are too damn bright; in that one tiny moment, Len knows that the boy is in love.

Her name is Felicity and she’s loud and weird and focused on a million things at once, like a blonde copy of Raymond himself, and Len thought he would never see a woman more suited for Raymond than Anna was, but here she is, wrapped up in garish dresses and jokes that don’t make sense to anyone but the two of them. Raymond is head over heels for her, even though she doesn’t seem to realize, and it takes a while for them to start dating.

Not nearly as long as it takes for her to leave Raymond for her ex, unfortunately.

Raymond throws himself back into research, something fascinating and complicated that Len only half understands but still tries to absorb when Raymond rambles about the possibilities. At that point, Len definitely earns enough to pay for a small one-bedroom of his own; they don’t talk about it, even though they are all aware of the fact. They still don’t talk about it when Lisa moves out – to Sara’s house, of all places.

Len thinks that they _will_ have to talk about it one day – the conversation looms over them like a threatening shadow, every morning, every evening, every time they go out for drinks and then come back home and say goodnight and their paths diverge towards their respective bedrooms. They’re not looking for a new roommate, and Len has a feeling it’s an end of an era; so far they’ve just quietly, without a word, paid Lisa’s share, but Len feels like they’re teetering on the edge of something. Maybe it’s about not wanting a complete stranger in their comfortably shared space; maybe it’s about Raymond’s PhD, and his plans of starting his own tech company. Len isn’t naïve enough to think that Raymond would stay in Boston, and Len cannot move cross-country _again_ for a... friend. Lisa’s life is here now, and so is Len’s, even though the idea of his life without Raymond in it is surprisingly painful. It was the endgame from the very beginning, letting Raymond build up his life and then watching him spread his wings. And yet, Len feels the day approaching like a tornado that will uproot his whole existence.

He spends weeks with his stomach twisted into knots. Raymond gets his PhD; Len thinks he’s developing an ulcer, but he’ll be damned if he asks Raymond to stay, without a reason, without a plan.

And then, one day, Raymond comes home and starts talking about renovating an old building not too far from their apartment that would suit the purposes he envisions for ‘Palmer Technologies’. The horrible pressure in Len’s stomach eases with horrifying promptness; he takes a deep breath, forces himself not to smile like an idiot, and listens to Raymond talk about the building’s pros and cons while pretending his hands aren’t shaking.

…

Cisco stumbles into their life in March, with his oral fixation and an eclectic taste in T-shirts. Len tentatively bonds with the guy over old-school sci-fi when Raymond brings him over for the first time, and for a while, everything is good. At least Len tells himself it is: Raymond looks happy, his company has taken off unpredictably fast, and Len himself can hardly complain. If he sometimes lies in bed and stares at the empty space in it, just the size of another person, he doesn’t let it get to him. He forces the unsettling feeling to fade with the morning light and pushes himself twice as hard while digging up dirt for yet another elaborate garden pond.

And then, one day, he gets back from work and expects silence – that kind of quiet that settles over the apartment, seeps into every corner, when Raymond’s out with Cisco and Len is all alone in the suddenly too-large space.

Instead, he can hear yelling before he even pulls out his keys, and he raises an eyebrow and wonders if he should go away and let them have it out, but then the shouting stops and the door swings open, and Cisco stalks out, disheveled and visibly upset. He jabs a finger towards Len’s face and sneers, slamming the door closed behind him – Len backs away, to give him space, and to get away at least a little bit because the guy looks furious.

“Yeah, and also, fuck _you_ ,” Cisco snaps, and Len raises an eyebrow at him.

“Excuse me?”

“No, seriously, fuck you, man, I’m done, alright, I’m _done_ , I can’t do this anymore!”

Len has no idea what he’s done to incur the guy’s wrath, but he grits his teeth and thinks about Raymond’s happiness, and forces his voice to remain calm.

“I don’t know what your problem is-“

“Like hell you don’t! I’ll tell you what – _you’re_ my problem, dude! When Ray first said he couldn’t go meet my family over Thanksgiving because he didn’t want to leave you alone, I thought, yeah, okay, he’s a sweet guy, he cares about his friends. When I had to listen to him talk about you non-fucking-stop, I thought he just needed _more_ friends, that he was just lonely. When I wanted to take him out for a date and he said, _again_ , ‘oh, I have to tell Len, he really wanted to see that movie’, I bit my tongue, but dammit, there’s only so much I can take! I refuse to be a third wheel in my own relationship, and you need to either move out or make a move on _him_ , because you two are unhealthily married to each other and nobody can compete with a roommate he’s been in love with for seven fucking years!”

Before Len can react to that verbal diarrhea, Cisco’s already stomping down the hall and down the stairs, muttering to himself in irritated Spanish, and Len is left gaping at the door that has been ‘home’ for a very long time and now feels like a gateway to hell.

He considers turning on his heel and leaving, grabbing a beer somewhere, maybe visiting Sara and Lisa to calm down. But then he imagines Raymond, on the other side of that door, heartbroken and alone and probably just as confused as Len himself is about Cisco’s outburst, and he pushes the door open while pushing back the voice that whispers that Cisco was right, that whatever it is they’re doing with Raymond, it has crossed the boundaries of simple friendship and traipsed right into the odd gray limbo that might not be helping either of them in the long run.

Raymond’s standing by the kitchen counter, hands braced on the wooden surface, shoulders squared and head down. His back is a study in tension, and Len closes the door quietly, not wanting to startle him. It’s futile, he knows – he’s aware of the moment Raymond realizes he’s not alone anymore, by the slight stiffening of his posture, by the minute motion of his head, as if he physically forced himself not to look back.

“I’m sorry,” Len says, a stupid phrase if he ever heard one. A lie, if he’s honest with himself – he never liked Cisco that much, and he’s not sorry to see him go. The only thing he dislikes about this is that Raymond is hurt – and that they’ve been pushed over that precipice, forced now to open up old wounds and talk about things they’ve been successfully avoiding for years.

“He said I couldn’t be anyone’s boyfriend,” Raymond mumbles, and Len takes one step closer, and then another, just to hear him more clearly, then huffs at the words and shakes his head.

“He’s wrong. You’re kind and loving and attentive, and-“

“Cut the crap,” Raymond interrupts him, voice soft but words harsh to Len’s ears. It’s not often that Raymond swears, he’s a goddamn Boy Scout through and through, or, as he would protest, an Eagle Scout, courtesy of Len’s help all those years back. It’s startling to hear such language from him, stupidly innocent as swear words go, and something in Len jolts, like he’s just gone on a roller-coaster after eating a little bit too much.

Raymond turns to him then, eyes red-rimmed and serious, arms crossing over that broad chest – when has he gotten so big? – and regards Len with serenity that is almost creepy.

 _This is how it ends_ , Len thinks, stomach churning, _this is when he says he has to go._

“He said,” Raymond takes a deep breath, and his gaze doesn’t stray; Len struggles not to look away under that quiet intensity that Raymond so often cloaks in humor and clumsiness and bright, open smiles. “He said that I couldn’t be anyone’s boyfriend, because I was already yours.”

The words hang between them, freeze the moment into the space of one terrified heartbeat, and Len has to force himself to breathe. He doesn’t know what to say – he’s afraid of saying the things he knows, on the off-chance they’re all wrong, and so he stares at Raymond and tries not to move a muscle, not to let on, his goddamn usual reaction to emotions that run a little too close to his core, to all the vulnerabilities he swore never to reveal to anyone again. A habit of two decades is hard to break, and so it’s Raymond who speaks again, face contorting into a pained grimace as he shakes his head and still, _still_ looks Len right in the eye as he continues.

“I- I can’t do this anymore, Len. Cisco was right.”

“He was just hurt,” Len chokes out, “angry.”

“I know. But he was right. Every time I meet someone, all I can think about is whether they will give me the things I get from you, whether they’ll take care of me and understand me and just be with me the same way. I think about everyone else in terms of _you_ , and I just… I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. I know what you’re going to say, that I’m too young, that you’re too old, that I deserve something else, something _better_ because you’ve built me up on this pedestal of virtue and you think of yourself as the villain in everyone’s story, and you’ll tell me that it’s just a schoolboy crush, puppy love, but Len, I haven’t been eighteen in a very long time, and I can tell you that what I felt for you when I first met you has nothing on what I’ve come to feel for you through all these years. So please, _please_ -“

Len never learns what it is Raymond is pleading for, because he more falls forward than walks, catches himself with his hands around thick biceps and kisses the rest of the (impressive) speech from Raymond’s lips. He’s always been shit at talking out of his heart – his head got in the way more often than not, making him stumble on honesty and scrape his knees on sincerity, so he lets the kiss talk for him, lets his body say what his mouth can’t, not without the excruciating fear of getting it wrong.

And Raymond, oh hell, Raymond’s always been the one damn thing Len desperately needed to get right.

Warm, large palms slide over his back; one hand curls around the nape of his neck and the other circles his waist, pulls him into the solid mass that is Raymond’s chest. Their mouths slide together, slow and soft after the first desperate mash of lips and teeth, and Len hears a sharp keen before he figures out it’s coming from him. Stars explode in his stomach, thaw something inside that’s been frozen for a very long time; Raymond licks at the seam of his lips and Len feels dizziness cloud his mind. He hangs on to those strong shoulders and pushes closer, _closer_ , as close as he can possibly get, because it’s never felt like this, _fuck_ , it’s never been this… intense, this good, with anyone. He never realized he was waiting for Raymond since that time he was first asked to dance, but he can’t imagine ever letting go, can’t imagine that he would wake up one morning and Raymond would be gone. The very thought makes him pull away and force pained, frightful words out of his mouth, even though all he wants is to be kissing Raymond again.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, so fast it’s more of a jumbled sound than actual speech, “don’t go. Stay. With me.”

Raymond replies with his lips and his hands and all the pent-up frustration and need of the past years. Len loses track of everything but the broad expanse of Raymond’s shoulders, the feel of his skin against his own and his mouth everywhere, and it feels so incredibly, invariably _right_ that the feeling burns right through Len’s defenses and justifications and excuses.

Later, an hour or two or three, they’re lying on the sofa (the same vomit-colored monstrosity that Lisa dragged in at the very beginning and declared it gold) because neither of them was in a state to make executive decisions about getting to a proper bed. Len’s half-sprawled on top of Raymond’s heaving chest – the sofa was definitely not meant for two adult men – and still recovering from the shock and the utter amazement at this unexpected outcome, when Raymond speaks again.

“Well, seems to me that seven years of foreplay was definitely worth _something_.”

And Len laughs; he laughs freely and loudly and without any regard for propriety, he laughs the way he hasn’t laughed in years, decades, maybe in his life. And when his stomach hurts and he can’t laugh any more, he shifts and raises his head and kisses Raymond again.

…

They don’t tell anyone for three more days.

Then, the weekend rolls around and Len declares it impolite to ditch his sister’s birthday party in lieu of fucking like rabbits. They show up half an hour before the official start, as always, and Raymond rings the doorbell because Len’s hands are full of Tupperwares, packed with the kinds of food that Lisa enjoys but can’t make for dear life. It’s business as usual, and yet, Lisa yanks the door open, takes one look at them, and rolls her eyes.

“Fucking finally.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://pheuthe.tumblr.com/).


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